


scraps

by pinecone_balsam



Category: Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: Vague As Hell, i am here for judgement, i can't commit, may stay all gilbert/anne but hey who knows, publicly publishing because i can't stew on my own anymore, tags updated as it goes, this has been in an untitled google doc for longer than i want to admit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:01:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27916435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinecone_balsam/pseuds/pinecone_balsam
Summary: Scraps and pieces of fanfics that maybe I'll put together some day. Tags updated as new fandoms are added.
Relationships: Gilbert Blythe/Anne Shirley
Kudos: 13





	scraps

**Author's Note:**

> hi hi.
> 
> i've been writing snippets of fanfics for like 100 different fandoms in this massive google document for years. since i'm trying to improve my writing, i'm going to start posting these little pieces/drabbles/whatever you want to call them here, so please, feedback is welcome.
> 
> first, a vague-ass anne x gilbert scrap.

She’s been a constant in his life for longer than he'd realized. However variable her moods, however volatile and dramatic her reactions, however unpredictable her next adventure, she has held her place in his life, his mind, with both feet firmly on the ground since they were children.

She’s been something entirely her own, unnamable to even her parents. Other kids had no idea what to do with her. They teased, they mocked, they gossiped for over a year...until suddenly, they didn't. Her differences became as _un-different_ as anything else on the island. There has always been something that defined her solely as herself, despite her own growing, her own constant change. He’s watched her out of the corner of his eye since the day she appeared in those woods, hair in long braids down her shoulders, standing out against the brown-gray of the trees. He remembers her first days, weeks, months she spent carving her niche to call home amongst them, so _foreign_ but oddly exactly what they needed.

It’s when they’re older that he realizes something has gotten under his skin and spread through him, climbing over him like ivy on an old house, and suddenly his senses are so finely attuned to her every action and inaction, from when she walks into a room to her silence after a disagreement. He finds himself being attentive to his every word around her, adjusting his sails to her wind, tacking when the water gets too rough. She doesn’t seem to realize her effect (or rather, _affect_ ) on him. After all these years, they’re not as close as they _could_ be, despite his careful watching and this quietly-pressing desire he feels in his chest to know her more, to step closer and really see her. Sometimes when they talk, her eyes cloud over, like she's thinking the same thing. He wonders sometimes who is fighting the pull more.

They’re not alone as often as they could be, and while part of him aches for it, the other is fearful, scared what would happen if their sparse one-on-one moments became more than moments, if the two of them would let the feeling last longer than a lingering gaze or the lengthy beat after a sentence. It’s those pauses, though, that leave him semi-convinced, as she walks away and long after she is gone in the darkness of his room and the quiet of his own home, that there’s something...there, in her, with him, that’s just out of his reach.

On warm days in the spring, he’ll glimpse her on the school steps during break, a dog-eared book open but pages-down in her lap, her head tipped back to lean on the post, chin to the sky and her eyes closed. Face to the sun, the daylight takes her moment of respite to illuminate her, her hair aglow and afire, and he thinks, absently, that she’s the most beautiful thing he knows. He doesn’t remember the thought later, when she’s fired up and pushing him to explain himself for showing up late for their presentation, but he does when someone asks him if he’s got himself a girl he's interested in one day before class. He dodges the question, but cannot help how his eyes slide over to her after the exchange ends to see if she'd been listening. He thinks she might have, by the way she hastily turns the page of the day's history lesson, but as always with her, and this thing that they are, there is no knowing, no certainty.

Between readings from borrowed medical texts, he runs their interactions over in his head in the evenings, remembers the determination on her face at the blackboard solving that geometry problem, the energy in her steps walking home with her best friend, the kindness and empathy in her eyes that day in the field. He falls asleep with his eyes drifting to the small white shell on his dresser, and dreams of her braids floating through the air as they danced, the grin on her face when he broke the set, and a moment maybe in the future when he finds it within himself to push a little farther into those rougher waters, into those moments that are more than moments, into the undefined feeling in his chest to see what awaits them, what is still left to be charted.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading :) again, comments/feedback appreciated.


End file.
